


sacred hearts

by antithestral



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Justice League: War
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Phone Sex, Pre-Justice League: War, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, clark's a thirsty ho whatcha gonna do bout it, i promise i'll make them fuck but first: ANGST, that's pretty much the sum total of this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-07-24 18:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16180310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antithestral/pseuds/antithestral
Summary: Kal-El finds his soulmate on a moonless night in Gotham's dockyards. Well, sort of.*Bruce Wayne meets his soulmate at a fundraiser in Metropolis, and Clark Kent should be easy to figure out, except of course he isn't.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s… impulse, really. 

Crappy impulse control, that’s what does him in, and wouldn’t Ma have a Sunday morning sermon ready if she’d heard _Clark_ was having problems with _impulse control._

Only, see, he’s been hearing about this new vigilante for a while, haunting Gotham CIty’s shadows, and there’s some small part of Clark, the part that never really left high school, the part that wanted to join the football team and fell in love with Lana Lang, the part that wanted so desperately to be _human_ , to fit in, to _belong,_ that can’t help but stir.

Because now there’s this… thing person  _being_ , in Gotham City that’s been doing the police’s job _for_ them, even better than they ever could, and all Clark can think, as he lifts off the rooftop of his apartment building and into the twilit sky, is,  _‘Not alone not alone someone like me i’m not alone-’_

_‘Finally.’_

 

 

*

 

 

 

Clark hovers high above Gotham’s skyline, the air still tinged with smoke up here, a shadowy remnant of the city’s dissipation below.

He lets his senses unfurl with a sigh, absorbing a detailed, finely grained map of the city’s topography, sifting through data quick enough to put supercomputers to shame. It’s a moonless night, and cloudy to boot; the kind of night that draws monsters from the dark. 

And where the monsters are, Clark has a feeling, is where the Batman will be too.

He’s right, of course.

(There’s no ‘of course’ about it, Clark’s just… feeling smug, maybe. Excited. A kid on a playdate. Look, no one said Clark had a lot of points in the adulting department alright?)

Finding him is a thrill, a bright zing of exhilaration that travels up his bones, settles like ozone at the back of his teeth. Angling towards the Gotham docks on a steep descent, Clark finds the Bat locked already in furious battle against six, no, _seven_ assailants. For a moment, just a moment, Clark allows himself to- watch. Because, he’s- he’s-

It’s the way he moves, Clark thinks dazedly, controlled, fluid, brutal. There’s an economy to his movement, that speaks of practice and rigorous tempering - the Batman has been trained. Trained to be a warrior.

And then one of the assailants pulls out a gun, a discreet, snub-nosed Glock, just a few specs away from police issue, and Clark’s flying into motion without thought, allowing himself a little superspeed, enough to play it to his best advantage, to put on a graceful landing- and yeah.

Alright.

Maybe he’s showing off a little.

A lot.

But it’s harmless, it's fine, no one’s gonna get hurt from it.

Especially not the Bat, when Clark takes the bullet harmlessly against his own chest, before twisting the shooter’s gun into a shapeless hunk of metal and tapping the guy on the back of his head, getting him unconscious before he hits the ground. 

It’s like- like nothing else, after that. Like breathing. The Bat doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause, absorbing Clark’s presence in his environment within a fraction of a second. They dispatch the rest of the crew in short order, and then it’s just- the two of them.

Another burst of superspeed, this time so Clark can think about what he _ought_ to say, because he knows, he _knows_ there’s that stupid, manic grin on his face, wide and exhilarated, and what he _wants_ to say is incredibly dumb, like, “Hi, let’s do that again,” or, “What’s a guy like you doin’ in a dump like this?” thanks for _nothing,_ Lombard, or, or, “Christ, you’re beautiful, can I touch you?” which only makes him sound like a- 

Serial killer?   
Psych ward runaway?   
Jeez, nothing  _good,_ that’s for sure.

But it’s the Bat who speaks first, who says, _growls_ , low and rasping and _dangerous,_ “Get the _hell_ out of _my city,_ ” before taking off from the nearest, shattered window and disappearing silently into the dark.

_Get the hell out of my city._

There’s a sharp, stinging burn around Clark’s wrist, where those exact words are etched into his skin.

_Get the hell out of my city._

Clark can still hear the Bat's heartbeat, not faint, not quiet, but steady, sonorous, loud as if they were standing face to face. He can go after him, _right now,_ he can _find_ him, corner him, _rip the mask off-_

_Get the hell out of my city._

And Clark- the goddamn idiot that he is, Clark leaves.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Three days later, he meets Bruce Wayne.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

It’s a funny thing, growing up with words like that, harsh, clinical letters in a calligrapher’s slant, beautiful and cutting all at once.

_Get the hell out of my city._

Clark wonders, sometimes, what Ma and Pa thought, when they first found him. The words would have been clearly legible even then, wouldn’t they, lettered around the skin of his wrist? An alien child, the perfect cuckoo, and the person who was supposed to want him, to love him, to cherish him-

Of course _that_ person would know, somehow, to say the cruelest thing you could, to someone like Clark.

To a refugee.

An imposter.

An orphan, a casualty of war.  
A man who has never, _never_ belonged.

_Get the hell out of my city._

Christ.  
It wasn’t funny at all.

 

 

*

 

 

Clark meets Bruce Wayne at an art-auction fundraiser for the homeless shelters past Clinton Bridge. 

It's one of those things he has to shadow Lois at, and Clark's sort of pathetically grateful for it - the big, high-society functions aren't Clark’s forte, and he never feels more like a drunk toddler in a china shop than when he’s surrounded by fragile, thirteen-foot high glass sculptures that he could shatter if he just  _looked_ at them wrong. 

Lois, of course, is both frighteningly charming and very, _very_ competent, and she manages to get the two of them into Bruce Wayne’s circle of acquaintances a couple hours past midnight, when the party’s really starting to get into swing, now that everyone’s forked over their money and wants to drink enough to forget about it.

"What the hell is _he_ doing here?" Clark had murmured into Lois' ear earlier that night, and received a withering glance and some commentary about Business Talks with Lexcorp. 

But over at the other end of ballroom, Wayne must have heard something funny, because he tossed his head back in a low, quiet laugh, baring smooth, sun-glazed skin, the long, gorgeous arc of his throat, and Clark had missed the tail end of it, had sort of- zoned out, a little. 

It was _fine.  
_ He was _in control._

“What do _you_ think about your city's ‘Bat Man’ then, Brucie?” his date asks now, after Lois has acquired introductions and the topic's turned to vigilantism, in a heavy East-European drawl.

‘Brucie’ grins, wide and sloppy, dark hair falling into his eyes, bow tie slipping undone, his posture lazy, open, inviting. There’s something… suggestive about it, about the way he _stands_ , even, like he _wants_ you to look, like he wants you to trace the broadness of his shoulders, the slim elegance of his hips, the way those enormous hands seem to dwarf his champagne flute, like he could snap it without trying… 

Or maybe that’s just Clark. 

Fuck, _alright_ , he thinks, ears burning red while Lois shoots him a quizzical, irritated glance. It’s definitely just him. 

“Oh, come on,” Bruce Wayne’s saying, his voice a surprising rasp, dark and powerful, that makes Clark’s toes curl jsut a little. “Guy dressing up in a Halloween costume every night?” He chuckles dryly, and- _fuck._

Fuck, Clark wants to _feel_ that, against his mouth, against bare skin, _Jesus Christ what the hell is_ wrong _with him?_

"Clearly," and Bruce rolls his eyes, thumb tracing slow circles on Natalya's bare hip, "the man needs help."

"He's a _hero_."

The words come spilling out of Clark's mouth before he can stop them, and Bruce Wayne's eyes - grey, not blue like he'd thought, icy, razor-sharp, Clark can _feel_ that gaze like something visceral, alive, running sharp nails along his spine - his eyes snap to Clark's, and _god_ , that feels good. 

Clark's expecting a retort from Bruce, witty and biting, the standard 'look at idiot hillbilly who can't ever Get It' one-liner. He's braced for it, prepared, but Wayne seems paralyzed into silence, pulse jumping erratically in his throat. 

So Clark pushes on, "I saw the reports about ACE Chemical. The bombs. The intended explosion would killed hundreds, if not thousands of Gotham citizens. He saved your life, from the- the Red Hood gang, wasn’t it? He saved the city that day, too, and he did it with _no_ help, _no_ powers, _nothing,_ while on the run from the same police whose lives he was trying to protect. So I don't know if it's ego, or ingratitude, or some newfound love for the letter of the law that makes you call him, what, a nutjob, was it, Mr. Wayne? Because Batman is a _hero_."

Wayne blinked. His smile came slow, a curl around the edge of his lips, that made Clark's throat run dry. "Oh please, Mr....?"

“Just Clark." 

“ _Clark_ ," rolling the syllables in his mouth, like something soft and delicious. “Don’t hold back, please—tell us how you _really_ feel."

And Clark reddens, swallows, looks away, throat too full, his skin buzzing harshly, electric. Someone cracks a dirty joke about Superman, and the topic changes, moves on. Lois steers it towards relevant topics, local businesses, political heavyweights, and Clark focuses on her instead. Ignores the steady, relentless weight of Wayne's eyes on him, because- _because._

It's a matter of principle, is what it is. 

Wayne makes his exit later, worse for wear, this side of tipsy, leering drunk, jostling past Lois, his model du jour long since abandoned. Clark's turned up to eleven by then, absorbing, with crystal hard brightness, the scent of him, the texture of his skin when his hand brushes Clark's, the thump of his rock-steady heartbeat, resting at a crawl. 

He doesn't miss the moment Bruce Wayne's hand slips into his trouser pocket, doesn't stiffen or react when he feels something slide in, slim, rectangular, cool. 

He buries his hands into his pockets and watches Wayne leave, the shape of him, the geometry of that tight, hard body, made loose, relaxed... easy. 

When Lois has her back to Clark, he pulls out Wayne's ‘gift’.   
It's a hotel keycard. _This_ hotel's keycard, in fact.  
Penthouse suite. 

Clark tried to remember how to function like a person. _Breathe,_ he reminds himself ineffectively, watching Bruce Wayne walk away, looking like _that._

_Breathe._

 

 

*

 

 

_He's a hero._

When he was little, Bruce had wondered at that, at the sort of person who would begin a conversation like that—non-sequitor, out of nowhere.

_He's a hero._

Bruce remembered rubbing at his wrist furiously, that night at the police station, heart thudding ceaselessly in his ears, his chest feeling hollow, gaping, a crater of icy, carnivorous _cold_. Jim Gordon had tucked a coat around him, and squeezed his shoulders. Bruce remembered Gordon sitting beside him, the silent, steady presence of him, and thinking to himself, in that terrifying liminal space between anger and grief: _There are no heroes._

He had wrapped his wrist that night, in a long strip of gauze, covered the words, words that _hurt_ , words that cleaved him open, words that made the wound bleed afresh, crimson, gushing hatred, Bruce hated his words, hated them, _hated_ -

_He's a hero._

Thomas Wayne had been Bruce's hero.   
Thomas Wayne died anyway. 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

It takes Bruce longer than it should, to realize that Clark Kent might be his soulmate, but Bruce is not his. 

There is a moment - just after Clark says the words on Bruce’s wrist - a moment of infinite silence, a sea, an ocean, a drowning sort of quiet, and Bruce looks into those eyes, hidden behind thick lenses, a hazy, shaded blue, no flash of recognition, of realization, and Bruce thinks,  _‘oh,’_ with a brilliant, flaring hurt, like taking a blow to the chest.

_He’s a hero,_ Clark Kent says, fierce and passionate and he’s all the things Bruce had imagined his soulmate might be, when he’d been young, and protected, and so terribly well-loved. It takes longer than it should have, before Bruce realizes, with a breathless sort of hysteria - Clark Kent is talking about the Batman.

Clark’s talking about _him._

It takes everything in him, not to laugh, in that moment.  
Everything in him, not to _scream_.


	2. Chapter 2

So this is how it begins:

Clark finds the penthouse, finds it quiet and dark, tomblike, and wonders if he shouldn't've come, if this whole thing is a mistake. But he makes his way to the bedroom, and Bruce is there after all, sans jacket, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms, silhouetted against a wall of glass, against Metropolis' electric skyline.

There’s a glass of dark liquor in one hand, the other tucked into his trouser pocket, making the fabric pull taut, trace the lines of him, the perfect swell of his ass, thighs bulging with heavy muscle. Clark swallows dryly at the sight and takes another step in, almost unconsciously, blood rushing to his cock, heartbeat throbbing in his ears.

“It’s late.”

Clark stops abruptly, stomach sinking like it’s got cement shoes on. “I… Should I not have- Do you want me to leave?”

Bruce drains his glass - bourbon, Clark notes blankly, tasting it on the air - and places it on a sidetable before turning around. “I did give you a keycard, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but…”

Bruce arches an eyebrow, as if to say,  _‘But what?’_

“Nothing,” and loosens his tie in response. Unfastens the top button. Bruce’s eyes drop to the patch of newly revealed skin, the hollow at the base of his throat, and Clark _feels_ it, a response in his blood like electricity. His senses flare open around Bruce, an instinctive, uncontrolled response, and Clark sees his pupils dilate, hears the rapid staccato of his heartbeat, the musky scent of arousal growing thick in the air. The corner of his mouth crooks up, entirely involuntary, a little bit smug, and Bruce’s eyes latch onto his mouth, devouring with his eyes. 

Bruce makes a little, abortive sound, in the back of his throat, and then he’s striding forward, wrapping those huge, calloused hands around the back of his neck, thumb working into a point just above the jut of his larynx that, on an ordinary man, would make him choke. Clark lets it, gasps like he needs air, hands settling around Bruce’s waist, dragging him closer so he can rut against that hard, toned body. Bruce nips at his jaw, opens his mouth around the hinge of Clark's jaw, teeth and tongue working to start an impressive bruise - but Clark won’t bruise, can’t, so he tilts his neck and captures his lips again, mumbles, “Kiss me, damn you,” like a plea, hands fisting in Bruce’s silk-soft hair. He seems to like that, dragging their mouths together again, likes it when Clark bends underneath them, likes it when he begs, so Clark whispers, “Please, baby, come on,” and he’s rewarded for that too, groans low and harsh when Bruce aligns their hips, brings his hard cock against Clark’s, Christ it’s too much, too quick, _dizzying,_ going zero-to-sixty in how long has it been?

No time at all. 

Fuck. Fuck, and he can’t shoot in his pants, not yet, he hasn’t even gotten his hands on Bruce, and jesus goddamn, what kind of a tragedy would that be? And it’s like telepathy, some kind of ESP thing he’s got going, because Bruce walks him into a wall - there’s a fucking _bed,_ right _there,_ but, jesus, his teeth dig into Clark’s bottom lip and make sparks skitter down his spine and alright, alright, who needs beds anyway - and his hands tug urgently at Clark’s belt, shoving down his pants-

Clark grabs at his wrist, licks his palm all sloppy wet, grins again when he sees those pupils dilate, the subvocal groan tearing through his larynx, and then Bruce has a hand wrapped around his dick, jerking him hard and fast, and no, no _hell no,_ Clark’s thinking, even when his head slams back against the wall, makes a painting rattle off to the side, balls tightening, drawing up, _no way he’s doing this alone._ It takes an inhuman - ha! - effort, Clark’s lifted commerical jets easier than this, but he forces himself to unzip Bruce’s pants, _don’t tear don’t tear,_ and his cock juts out hard, smacking against those washboard abs, and _oh_.

“Ain’t that a sight,” Clark mumbles half to himself, hands tightening convulsively around Bruce’s hips. He’s thick, thicker than Clark expected, uncut, a dusky purple at the head and glistening with precome. Clark doesn’t quite realize when he’s slid to his knees, wrapped a hand around the base of that gorgeous cock, but Bruce groans, guttural, when he presses an off-centre kiss at the head. Clark almost laughs, a soft, awed huff of air, forehead against Bruce’s thigh, whispers, “I’m gonna make you feel so _good,_ baby,” before he wraps his mouth around the head, and _sucks._

“ _Christ_ ,” Bruce rasps, high above him, one hand braced out against the wall, the other fisted against his hip, like he’s barely holding on, and Clark decides, screw the technique, screw it, he wants to _taste_ Bruce when he comes, wants him to lose control, and he hollows out his cheeks, and swallows past his gag reflex, until he has Bruce’s cock buried to the root, hands digging into that perfect ass, and he _moans._

Bruce is trembling under him, shaking, and Clark pulls off, says, “You can fuck my mouth, if you want,” eyes glittering with hunger, and Bruce makes a horrible, broken sound before he does, he _does-_ Ruthless fingers in the back of his head, hips stuttering roughly as he fucks into the burning hot hollow of Clark’s mouth, utterly silent, gorgeous, and Clark wraps a hand around his dick, letting Bruce use him, letting Bruce do whatever the hell he wants, the dark taste of him filling up all his senses, the raw physicality of getting _fucked._ He comes with a shuddering groan around Bruce’s cock, onto the parquet floor, in sharp, heavy spurts, and it sets Bruce off too, hot, thick ropes of come that Clark doesn’t quite manage to swallow, that dribble from the corners of his mouth while Bruce comes and comes, shaking, gasping, whispering Clark’s name like a litany, a prayer. 

He collapses back against the wall, and Bruce slides down to his knees, between his legs, and brushes their lips together, before that thumb is caressing his throat, in a way Clark knows means  _‘Open’_ now. He’s too far gone to kiss, to do anything more than part open under Bruce’s mouth, like bruised, swollen fruit, so he does, and Bruce’s tongue delves hungrily into his mouth, licking out the taste of his own cum, until that’s all he can taste, all he can feel.

He pulls away, to breathe, and Clark’s mouth tugs upward again, carding his fingers slowly through Bruce’s hair, petting at it absently. “You’re kinda filthy, huh?” he asks, gentle, hormone-happy, and Bruce snorts. 

“Is that supposed to be some kind of subtle hint to get to the showers?” Bruce asks, a little hoarse, a little too rough to keep Clark from- wanting. 

Clark shrugs, works open a couple buttons of Bruce's shirt. Skin. Miles of naked, soapy skin. His poor, abused cock twitches in interest. _Not yet, boy. We’ll get there._ “Not so much about the subtle, really.”

Bruce smirks, and rolls smoothly up to his feet, in a single, fluid motion, leaving Clark kneeling at his feet. God. What the hell _is he._ Clark stares dumbly while Bruce strips off his shirt, his undershirt, the trousers, the pants, everything but the wrist cuff, oh sweet baby Christ on a fucking candlestick, oh god he looks- he looks so-

At some point, Clark realizes his mouth's hanging open like a god damn idiot and he snaps it shut with an audible click, turning a violent shade of red in the next breath.

Bruce laughs, low, husky, and- Oh, isn't that a nice sound, the orgasm-dumb part of his reptile brain says, and Clark wraps a hand around his dick, tugs lightly. It hurts, of course it hurts, and he squeezes his eyes shut, sparks flying ice cold up his spine, too sensitive for it to feel good, too turned on to do anything else. 

When he opens his eyes, Bruce is gone, his clothes leaving a breadcrumb trail to follow. There's a faint gurgle in the pipes and the sudden roar of an enormous shower being turned on. Clark grins, irrepressible, gets up to his feet, and, obediently, follows.

 

 

*

 

 

The next morning, Clark wakes up to an empty bed, bright mid-morning sunlight streaming through the wall of windows, six missed calls from Perry White and Lois Lane on his phone. He stretches, luxuriant, his body feeling the closest approximation to human-tired, a loose, warm feeling in his limbs, that only comes from throwing down with super-villains, from weight-lifting jumbo jets in abandoned Russian junkyards - and apparently, from letting Bruce Wayne fuck his brains out, even if all they did was rut lazily in the bed, edging and breathing each other in- slow, slow, he likes it close and dark and painfully slow-

Clark exhales.

Tired. 

Ain't that something else. 

 

 

*

 

 

He gets to work horribly, insanely, _wildly_ late, lets Lois ream him out for twelve minutes straight - she had toskip Q &A at the Mayor’s clean energy initiative  _and_  go down to U of M's anti-nuclear rally, all to cover Clark’s ass - and offers apology-salted-caramel-quadshot-frappucinos for the rest of the week.

But he doesn’t tell her.

Not about last night. 

Not about the folded up note he found on the bedside table, a mobile number scrawled in bold, slanted letters that Clark programmed into his phone and didn’t ever message or call or even dare to acknowledge, half-convinced that if he did, the whole night would turn out to be some kind of kryptonite-induced hallucination. 

Not about the hotel keycard he’s held on to, tucked into his wallet behind his Metropass, like a talisman, a real, irrefutable reminder that it happened. That night happened.

He doesn’t tell her about Bruce.

(He doesn’t think about what that means.)

((He _doesn't._ ))


	3. Chapter 3

He spends Sunday evening cruising Metropolis’ troposphere, basking in the city’s thermals, under the wispy, cool balm of moonlight. The chatter of the city is soothing from this height, an undercurrent of white noise that Clark doesn’t try to focus on, except- 

Huh.

There’s something beneath it.

Clark drifts towards it, drawn like a little tugboat bobbing in a tropical storm. He narrowly misses a couple of commercial jetliners, and drops well below cruising altitudes - cutting loose, breaking the sound barrier and letting the pull drag him in blind.

He realizes he’s in Gotham just a few seconds too late, realizes the sound has coalesced into a heartbeat—

‘Bruce?’ a small, stupid bloody part of him pipes up, but no, no of course not. 

Dark night.   
Crime alley.   
Luthorcorp storage yard. 

Warehouse rigged to blow - but no, three disabled and _Batman's_ working on the fourth-

Sniper.   
Rooftop.   
_Fuck._

The panic that swells up in him is paralytic, choking, a deluge of _fearhate **rage**_ that rams up his spine, _protect-protect- **mine** ,_ cruel and vicious and completely foreign, and Clark blurs with how fast he moves, vision sharpening painfully on the gunman's trigger finger, on the almost imperceptible tightening of muscle along his forearm as he prepares to squeeze-

A shadow drops in Clark's sightline.   
The gunman gets a foot in the back of his head, braining himself on the scope, and passes out.   
The- boy? kicks the sniper rifle out of the way, careless, practically _bored_. 

"Roof's clear," he says into the empty air, and Clark can hear a tinny grunt over his- earpiece?

He drifts quietly down to the rooftop, behind the - _incredibly young -_ vigilante, and the boy's cape flutters in the breeze. 

"Nice work."

The kid goes still for a- a nanosecond, really, and then _whips_ around, tasing Clark full in the face. 

Robin's eyes go wide under the domino mask - lime-green, really, Batman? And a great yellow cape, like he _wants_ this kid to get beat up, what in _God's name_ \- and Clark picks off the leads, still sparkling with little bursts of electricity. 

"That tickled."

"Oh god," the kid's saying, horrified. " _Oh god._ You're- You're-"

"Superman," Clark supplies, helpfully. 

" _Superman!"_ the kid moans, hiding his face in his hands. His voice is muffled when he goes on, "I tased _Superman,_ my life's _over_ , holy shit, Batman's gonna _kill_ me."

"I seriously doubt that, son."

Robin peeks from between his fingers, blinking owlishly. How old is this kid anyway? Eight? Nine?

"You know," Clark muses, leaning back against a ventilation shaft and crossing his arms, "I didn't think _you_ were real too."

Robin grins, a little sheepish. "It's part of my charm?" he replies with a shrug, and Clark smiles back helplessly. What kind of a man let's a _nine-year-old_ take out _masked gunmen_ , that's what _he'd_ like to know.

"Robin," Batman growls over the comm unit, and Clark feels his Words sting, _ache_ , under the cuff. "All clear downstairs. I'm giving Gordon the heads up. Head back to the Batmobile."

 _Batmobile?_ Clark mouths, incredulous, and Robin waggles his eyebrows like an absolute dork, before putting on his best Serius Bizness voice, and replying, "Cool. Hey, Batman, can I get pie first?"

"Robin..."

"Pleeeeeeeeease?" Robin whines, and Clark recognizes the tone intimately from his childhood - from everytime he tried to sneak extra cookies under Martha Clark's terrifyingly omniscient glare. "C'mon, the bad guys are out, the Batsignal's up, it's gonna be quiet," - 'Batsignal',  _honestly,_ McDonald's and Steve Jobs brand their shit less obsessively - "and I need foooooooooood."

"One slice," he growls, and Clark snickers. Holy shit, he's a soft touch. A fond swelling rush comes on the heels of it and-

_Get the hell out of my city._

Right. 

"No ice cream, Robin," Batman's saying, like every exhausted single dad Clark's ever met, "I _will_ know if you eat any," and the fondness stays, stubbornly persistent, like a  _rash,_ and Clark _hates_ it, hates it, and holds onto it anyway, because he's a fuckin' masochist, isn't he?

"Yeah, yeah, alright, _dad,"_ Robin snipes back, and it's sarcastic except how it absolutely isn't, and then he's beaming up at Clark. "So I've always wanted to know - do you eat? Like, human food?"

"You've always wanted to know- if I _eat?"_

Robin shrugs. "Batman says I have interesting priorities."

Clark wonders how many of the kid's sentences start with _'Batman says.'_ He's betting on a lot. "Sure. I eat."

Robin rolls on his heels, vibrating with excitement. " _Awesome_ , we're going to Monty's, c'mon, their pie will _murder_ you and you'll be happy about it."

"Can't beat my mom's," Clark replies evenly, his heart in his throat while the kid shoots out a grappling wire and rapidly descends down the building. Jesus effing Christ, who _is_ this kid.

"You have a _mom?"_

"Sure. I didn't come from an egg."

"Yeah, okay, but- you have a mom who makes _pie?"_

Clark shrugs. Can't hurt to be _some_ kind of honest, right? Kid's wearing a cape, zipping around Gotham's rooftops at 3am on a school night. He can keep a secret. Probably.

"She took me in when I was little."

" _Ohhh_. That's nice. She's like your Batman," before diving between two buildings into a alleyway the size of a postage stamp. 

Clark pretends his heart's lurching out of his chest because he's pretty terrified for the kid, _really_ , wants to wrap him up in blankets and stick him in front of a Sesame Street rerun, not out here fielding criminals in this cesspit of a city, but there's that traitorous warmth that's lingering still, the rasp of quiet fondness in Batman's voice, the easy, obvious trust Robin places in him, the certainty in his _bones_ that this kid is cherished and protected and _loved_ -

 _She's like your Batman,_ he hears Robin say, and Clark lets it steal over him, this awful, thunderous thing, that knocks him down to his knees, that _this is what he'll **never** have._

Let's it wash over him, the pain and the hurt and the lingering ache, the fear he never lets himself feel when his eyes stray to his Words. 

~~_Get the hell out of my city._ ~~

_She's like your Batman._

Robin looks over his shoulder, and yells, "Oy! Keep up, old man!" 

Clark grins back, dives ahead and tosses the kid into the air. Robin shrieks happily, flying high above Gotham's skyline for a long second, before Clark catches him, fits him close and _soars_. 

_Get the hell out of my city._

Sure.  
Alright.

But Clark's always had some pretty interesting priorities too, alright? First, pie. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to me.  
> LISTEN.  
> there is NO PLOT HERE.  
> I DID NOT ADVANCE THE PLOT AT ALL.
> 
> WELCOME TO THE STRANGE HELL OF KINKTOBER.

The bombs at Gotham’s Luthorcorp warehouse are heavy on his mind, long after he leaves the city.

On Monday, Clark logs on to Gotham Gazette's website, trawling for mentions of Lex Luthor in the last couple weeks. He's been in and out of the city, lately, and Clark has a bad feeling in his gut - but there's nothing there, of course, Luthor knows how to keep a low profile when it's in his best interest to do so. He's about to log off and get some lunch when he spots the sidebar — a trashy, glossy Vicki Vale piece, the headline in all red, screaming _'BRUCIE'S WILD WEEKEND WITH HABEEB TWINS!!!'_.

The name is recognizable. Giselle and Louis Habeeb are what Lois calls 'influencers' - Instagram-famous and sort of astonishingly pretty: tall and blonde, all full, pink lips and too-blue eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones.

There's a photo under the headline, too small to make anything out except for the hint of bright Pacific blue, a beach drenched in sunlight.

 _Don't click on it,_ says the sensible voice in his head. _Don't do it. Don't. It's not your business and it's not gonna help, you giant fucking dumbass don't fucking click._

Clark clicks on it.

It's not very clear - grainy and overexposed in a way that makes Clark think of maybe someone parked their boat just outside the territorial waters of Havana, pointed a telephoto lens in the direction of a private beach and waited for Bruce Wayne to... well, be Bruce Wayne.

So there's a beach, and there's Bruce, sprawled on a divan under a palapa, in board shorts and an off-white shirt, unbuttoned all the way down. There's Giselle Habib, the Victoria's Secret model half his age, curled up against his side, pretty, pink mouth skimming the line of his jaw. Louis, on the other hand, has his head pillowed on Bruce's thigh, a colorful throw across his hips, back arched just so.

It's fairly obvious that both of the twins are very, very naked, that Bruce's hand is wrapped around Louis’ cock beneath that throw, that his smirk is purely for the cameras he shouldn't even be able to see. Clark stares at the photo for a long, drawn-out minute, and then very carefully, clicks the window closed.

He turns to Lois and asks her about the story she's doing - a process piece on the Congressional budget hearings, and lets her impassioned rant wash over him until he's able to breathe again.

 

 

*

 

 

He gets home late, a low, crawling buzz still in his head. The apartment's dark, and Clark can't bother with the pretense - turning on the lights, heating up some leftover pizza, rolling his shoulders like he's tired.

He strips off his clothes instead, dropping them on the way to the tiny bedroom, and collapses on the mattress, hard already, now that he knows he can do this, now that he can take his time.

Wraps his hand around his cock, squeezes the base until it hurts. Bruce. Bruce in the sunlight, glowing, golden. Soft, lush tits pressed against his side. He likes teeth, likes to scrape against soft skin, likes a little hurt. Bruce's teeth, around Giselle's pale, pink nipples, biting until they turned red, until she was trembling beneath that massive, gorgeous body. Louis, wrapping his lips around Bruce's enormous cock, throat swallowing convulsively as he sucked him down, too big, too much, tears leaking from his pretty blue eyes while Bruce fucked that pliant, soft mouth. Bruce's tongue, working on Giselle's hot cunt, on Louis' hole, opening them up, fucking them slow, and deep, and relentless.

Clark's heels dig into the mattress, but he still doesn't want to come, doesn't want to give in, not yet. A quick fumble in the bedside drawer. Lube. God. Yes yes. Two fingers, slicked up, and then he screwing them deep into himself, no stretching, no prep, gasping at the burn, the hot, tight heat around his fingers, wonders if Bruce would fuck him like this, would he flip him over, fuck him hard and brutal. Three fingers now, and the burn has morphed into some sharper, visceral.

Bruce's hands, slowly rubbing into his prostate, cock dripping steadily against his belly, pooling warm, sticky precome in his navel, just rubbing, slow and steady. There's a high, desperate whine working its way from Clark's throat- so close, he's so close-

His head’s buzzing.  
His head’s buzzing?

 _Phone_ . Phone. Where the-

Under the pillow. Operating on autopilot, while his neurons glitter and burst and vaporize behind his eyelids, he slides to answer, and forces a hoarse, “Hello?”

_Holy shit why the fuck did he answer his phone._

“Clark, hello.”

_Oh good Christ, it can’t be, even his luck isn’t this—_

“Bruce,” Clark chokes out, carefully pulling his fingers out, hissing sharply.

“…Is this a bad time?”

Clark almost laughs. Is it a bad time. Gosh, Bruce, I was just about to come my brains out thinking about letting you fuck me, _is it a bad time._ “No.”

Bruce pauses. Even the silence sounds disbelieving.

“Bruce?” God, it hurts. Being this hard just… He wraps his fist around the base of his cock and squeezes, exhaling a harsh breath. Christ, it _hurts._

“I’m coming to Metropolis again next—Clark? Are you _sure_ you’re alright?” Bruce’s voice is soft, quiet, it washes over him like something tangible, silk, warmth, the blanketing crush of heat at the heart of a volcano- “Where are you?”

“Home,” he says, and it comes out a croak. His cock is slick, dripping wet with precome, angrily red, and his fist slicks upward with almost no effort, god, so fucking wet, he’s so fucking _gone._

“Are you- alone?”

Clark locks his fingers around the root, just above his balls, a makeshift cockring - if sex toys could exert several thousands tons of pressure per square of inch - _don’t come, dont come dontcome_ \- and hisses, “ _Ye-es._ ”

“Clark,” and _oh,_ his voice has dropped about twelve octaves, and goes straight to his dripping cock, “where _are_ you?”

“ _Home_.”

“Mm. Where?”

“Bed,” digging a nail into the head of his cock, oh _fuck,_ Bruce’s voice sliding hot, heavy fingers over his body, toes curling into the sheets, god he needs to _come._

"Tell me what you're doing."

"I- You?"

"Tell me, Clark."

"Nothing. I'm-"

"Clark," and oh, his voice, all rasping and whiskey, gravel-soft, "are you hard?"

He squeezes his eyes shut, fingers limp and sweaty around the phone. "Mm."

"Did you have your hand around your pretty cock when I called, Clark?"

His throat's dry, hot dust, like the surface of Mercury during a solar flare, and he can't make a sound.

"Answer me, darling," and Clark's cock jerks at that, spurting precome and he states down at his dick like it doesn't belong him, like it's something alien-

"No."

"No?"

"In my- Inside me."

"You gorgeous whore," Bruce's voice comes over the phone, crooning and soft, and Clark's whole spine is rigid, tense, "you want to be fucked, don't you? I could do that, hold you down and fuck that pretty hole," Clark can hear the snick of a zipper over the faint, fabric shifting, oh fuck, he's hard, _Bruce_ is hard, just from this, just from _talking_ \- the sound that comes out of his throat is animal, barely human, barely anything- “Is that what you need, Clark? Do you want me to open you up, slow, until you’re aching for it, until you’re begging for it, get you wet and slick and gaping for my cock?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Do you want to come, Clark.”

“Mmm-nh.”

Bruce chuckles, and there’s that faint, ugly rasp in his voice, just a little mean. It does _terrible_ things to Clark, makes supernovas crash and explode behind his eyes, and God, what does that say about him? “But not until I say so, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Br- _Bruce.”_  

“Yeah, baby? You know the words. You just have to _ask,_ Clark. Can you do that, for me?”

“P- pl- _please.”_

 _“Baby,”_ Bruce whispers, like he’s in _awe,_ like he isn’t the one who’s holding Clark hostage with nothing but his voice. “Okay. Okay. Clark? Come for me.”

The orgasm _rips_ its way out of him, liquefies his spine and Clark can’t make a sound, can’t move, except he is, he’s crying out, eyes squeezed shut and burning wildfire-crimson, until he hears Bruce groan softly, coming in almost perfect silence except the shaky, thready exhale, jesus, god, did that just happen?

“Clark?”

“Y- yeah.” His heart’s still going so fast, like Clark just flung several small buildings into the exosphere, except he did none of that, did he? “I’m here.”

“I’ll be in Metropolis next week. The . Be there.”

“Um. I don’t- Aren’t those things invitation only?”

“It’ll be arranged. You’ll…” He pauses. “I’m sorry,” Bruce says, and his voice is quieter, a little more distant, “I didn’t mean to imply that- Of course, if you’d rather not-”

“No!” Oh good going, Clark, the guy makes you come harder than you have since you turned 12, and invites you to a party, and then you act like a massive fucking _douchebag—_ “I mean, I’d like that. I- Really, Bruce. I’d really like to come.” _Oh wow._ “Uh. I mean-”

Bruce snorts. “I’ll courier an invite over, shall I? Be there.”

“Yeah, yeah, definitel _-”_ Clark pulls his phone away from his ear, and stares at his lockscreen.

Bruce… hung up on him?  
Bruce _**hung up** on him. _

 

 

_“Motherf-”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! remember to subscribe for updates, leave a kudos if you liked it!  
> for more of my nonsense, find me on tumblr @pasdecoeur


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